The Shepherd's Boy
by The Dreaming Hare
Summary: Oliver never was one for drinking at parties. A fun outlet for some reminded him only of the things he no longer had. Written for Round 9 of the QLFC - Oliver Wood dislikes alcohol. Intensely.


Oliver sat hunched, his head in his hands. Though he was not quite as young as he once had been, the dim light revealed him to be handsome still – not quite far gone enough to seed, but it was a close thing.

As he stared at the open letter on the carpet at his feet, he couldn't help but recall the events that had brought him to this place. The things that had made him into the man he was.

* * *

The air was damp and smelled of sheep, but Ollie ran about without a care in the world. He saw only promise and life in the rain and wooly creatures that pressed in on all sides, and was pleased as punch to be in the middle of them, out with his Da.

"Da! Da, look! I'm one of the sheep," Ollie said as he sat amongst them, muddying his clothes and smiling without a care.

"Ah, so you are, you rascal," his da replied. "You'd best be careful, less you'd like to grow a tail! I don't think yer mum would like that too much!"

The sound of Albert Wood's laughter rang through the pasture as he ruffled his young son's hair in indulgence.

* * *

The bottle of whiskey slammed down onto the kitchen table and shattered as Albert Wood collapsed in grief. Crumpled on the floor, his moan turned into a wail that seemed as if it would reach the whole world.

Oliver watched silently from behind the door as his father lay carelessly in the spilled drink, tears coursing down his face until there was nothing left and they stayed in silence. Hours could have passed, or days, but all Oliver knew was that his father was a broken man – destroyed by the death of his wife.

Of Oliver's mum. His mum, with the wan smile and the laugh that could bring a smile to the face of the grumpiest old codger down at the pub. His mum with golden hair and soft hands. His mum, who was never coming back to them.

Quietly, Oliver went into his room and wept.

* * *

"Da, the sheep are in," Oliver mumbled as he sped past his father on the way to his room.

The only response he received was an incoherent grunt from behind the tall backed chair that was the only piece of furniture left in the room. Closing his bedroom door gently behind him, Oliver couldn't help but let out a sigh that he refused to let turn into a sob.

It had been years since the death of Ellen, his mother. Still his father hid in drink, unable to tend the sheep or himself, never mind his newly turned-eleven year old son.

Oliver had kept the sheep as best he could, but things weren't good for them now. Things hadn't been since that very first shattered bottle of whiskey. And as much as he would want to believe that his father would one day come back to him, it was about as likely as his mother doing so.

Little did he know that a letter was winging his way – a letter that would give him a chance to get out of his father's drink-soaked grasp.

* * *

"I assure you, Mr. Wood, this is no joke." Minerva McGonagall looked at the bedraggled man sternly as she stood in his doorway. "Your son is a wizard, and he must be trained. If not by Hogwarts, then by another institution."

Albert could only blink at the woman in stupefaction, though Oliver was quite certain it was because he hadn't seen a woman in the door since his mother had died, not because McGonagall had called him a wizard.

"Take 'im, then."

"I beg your pardon?" McGonagall inquired sharply.

"The boy!" Albert said. "You need to train 'im up? Take 'im! Messin' about 'ere all day, doing 'oo knows what with those sheep of 'is!"

"If you'd like me to make provisions for your son, Mr. Wood," she began acidly, "I would advise you to look into your finances and general state of living. It seems to me that his 'messing about' has provided more to your household than you have of late."

Again, Albert stood in stupefaction, gaping at the woman who dared to speak thusly to him.

"Hogwarts offers financial sponsorship for students unable to pay tuition themselves. Oliver is more than welcome to look into this avenue of payment, and to seek out alternative living arrangements for the duration of the holidays."

And with a sniff and a quick handshake, she was gone, advising Oliver that he could reach her by owl if he required her assistance.

* * *

The summer after Fourth Year was like any other so far. Oliver took care of the sheep and the grocery shopping, avoiding his father as much as possible whilst trying to keep him alive.

He did have a brief moment of pity for the kind of life his father must lead while he was away at school, but it was quashed the moment a thrown bottle smashed against the wall behind his head.

"Boy! I tol'ja not to come back 'ere! Never again!"

He hadn't in fact told Oliver that, but arguing would be pointless, and most likely dangerous.

"I need to stay here in the summer, Da," Oliver said softly. "It's only for two more weeks."

Albert had fallen silent, squinting at him. His great dirty beard quivered, and his lips trembled, and it took Oliver a moment to realize that he was crying. Now, great heaving sobs shook him, the smell of whisky and gin permeating the air with each foul breath Albert took.

He mumbled incoherently through his sobs, Oliver frozen in horror as he watched the man his father had become. Suddenly his head shot up and he fixed Oliver in his watery gaze.

"You look just like yer ma."

And with that, Oliver swore that he would never come back to this place.

* * *

The letter fluttered gently to the floor as tears ran down Oli's face.

_Mr. Wood,_

_ it is my great misfortune to inform you of the passing of your Father, Albert Robert Wood . . ._


End file.
